Love Tastes Like Strawberries. Rosamund Haden

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      “This afternoon.”

      “What?”

      “I am the only model and there’re two classes. There’s an advert up for another model – a woman.”

      “I can model.”

      “Not you, Jude.”

      “Why not? If you can do it . . .”

      “It’s my thing, Jude. Besides you’re the wrong colour. He’s looking for a black woman.”

      Then they had a fight there on the pavement. Luke had promised to take Jude to the gay and lesbian film festival but he had no money. He needed to model to get money. “Remember that’s what this is all about. Making money so we can do stuff. You’re always telling me you want to ‘experience everything’,” he says sarcastically. “Well, how are we going to do that if . . .”

      Then he turned to Stella. “I’ve got to take her home now. Nice meeting you, Stella. Doesn’t that mean star? The only thing that will work with Jude now is a good fuck – so if you’ll excuse us.”

      Stella arrives back at her desk in the open plan office of Verve magazine, where she recently started work as a features writer. Her head is spinning. She cannot concentrate on her article, or anything in the office for that matter. Her mind is still in Kingston Road with Luke and Jude. Suddenly she feels alive again. Panicky – but alive.

      “You will come to the art class. Promise. Bring a friend.” Jude’s parting words.

      “I will,” promised Stella.

      Luke unzips Jude’s dress and it falls to the floor. For the second time that day he has an erection so hard it is uncomfortable and comes within seconds.

      “Do you have to go this afternoon?” Jude asks him.

      “You ungrateful little witch,” he teases her, rolling her over and kissing her for a long time. He is good at kissing, and he knows it.

      Jude leans across his thigh to reach her cigarettes and Luke winces. She looks down at where the skin is raised in a lump. “What is it?” she asks, pushing her finger against the lump again.

      “Fuck,” says Luke, “don’t do that.”

      “Did you fall?”

      “No. It’s something . . . growing,” says Luke.

      “You’re paranoid, Luke, it’s the weed.”

      “I’m going to have it seen to,” he says, ignoring her. Then he jumps up. “Shit, I forgot my essay. I have to hand it in.”

      “Don’t leave me,” says Jude.

      “God, you’re needy.”

      He reaches over Jude, takes a pen from the beer crate that is her table and writes something in the middle of her back.

      “What is it? What does it say? I haven’t got a mirror. What does it say, Luke?” But he is already halfway out the door, pulling on his jeans. He blows her a kiss and then is gone.

      Around the corner Luke stops and feels the lump on his leg. Is he paranoid? What if he is dying? The truth is, he’s too scared to go to the doctor. Shit . . . He fishes in his pocket, brings out the coke he had scored earlier, snorts it and is flying.

      Françoise

      Dudu is lying on the mattress that serves as a sofa and their bed, watching a soapie and flicking through a magazine. She has had her hair braided at the station and is wearing a hot pink top and a tight denim skirt that shows off her curves.

      She and Françoise have been renting the room above the Chinese shop in Woodstock for three months now. In that time Dudu has gone to school, Grade 11, got herself a boyfriend with a car, Pascal from Congo, and found them a TV.

      Her eyes track from the magazine to the TV screen, which is the only light in the dim room. The picture is fuzzy and the faces look yellow.

      “I’m going to work now.” Françoise unplugs her cellphone from the charger and slips it into her bag.

      “Why don’t you come out with me and Pascal afterwards? We’re going for KFC.”

      “Not tonight.”

      “That’s what you say every time I ask. Come on. You need some fun. How are you going to meet guys if you are always working?”

      “I’m not going to meet guys at KFC.”

      “That’s what you think.”

      “How are we going to pay bills if I am not working?”

      “One night out won’t change anything.”

      But it will, thinks Françoise. If she just takes her eyes off the wheel for a second they will lose control of their lives, skid off the road and crash. She will have to hurry or she will be late for her shift and she is still on probation. If she loses her job they won’t be able to pay the rent. The manager fires people for any reason he chooses. Being late is a big one.

      “Bring me a Coke,” says Dudu.

      “You should be studying. You’ve got exams in a month.”

      “Who needs exams? I have a plan,” says Dudu.

      “Not now,” says Françoise. Her jeans still feel damp from the line. There wasn’t a chance to dry them properly. She pulls her denim jacket over her T-shirt. “I’m late for work.”

      “Relax. You won’t need to work soon,” says Dudu. “I’ve got it all worked out. What I’m going to do is . . .”

      But Françoise is already out the door and running down the concrete steps. She doesn’t want to hear another of Dudu’s crazy plans. Rounding the corner of the stairs she nearly trips over a toddler who is playing in a puddle of filthy water. The whole place stinks since the sewerage pipe overflowed. They are living in a cesspit.

      Françoise takes a taxi down Main Road, gets off and runs to the Spar. But when she gets inside the cashier on the shift before is still cashing up. Françoise turns to the notice board near the entrance while she waits to take her place at the till. She reads the adverts every week, looking for a better job, with better pay. Every time they need experienced people. Today there is a new advert. An A4 sheet tacked to the felt board with a pin.

      Models needed for Life Drawing class. Phone Ivor Woodall . . .

      She writes his number down on the back of her hand before she goes to check in at her till. The manager of the store comes over.

      “You’re ten minutes late.”

      “She was still cashing up.” She points at the cashier who is just leaving. “I was here, waiting.”

      “Don’t backchat me. You were late.”

      “I’m sorry. СКАЧАТЬ